


revelation

by fightlikeagirl



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Sort Of Vague Fantasy, M/M, and Hannibal is his high priest, or in which Will is a god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightlikeagirl/pseuds/fightlikeagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Divinity is not an easy thing. Hannibal sympathizes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	revelation

His is not the most conventional of religions, nor the most well-abided. They suffer him out of fear, largely; fear of his god, fear of what whispers he will bring his god. He is a man with his lips to the divine, and they afford him all the respect he demands. Worship at his temple, bring offerings, fill his coffers—all this they do reluctantly, but obediently and punctually, and so Hannibal cannot fault them. 

His god has no name; not to them, at least. To them, he is simply the divine manifestation of Knowledge and Death, a frightening combination (for them, but for Hannibal, an intoxicating one). This seems impractical to Hannibal, worshipping a god whose name he doesn't even know, and so he calls his god _Will_.

He is a young boy when he first discovers his gift, his ability to communicate with the divine. It's not an act of revenge, or of unexpected passion. Rather, there is a voice whispering in his ear, telling him all the steps, exactly how to slice so that the blood spatters just so, which parts to cut out and devour. Concluding, in near-hysterical tones, _This is my design_. Hannibal hears, he follows, he _worships_. He is a perfectly-tuned instrument, prepared to bring to others the gift of this beautiful thing, this beautiful death.

His god rarely talks to him in such clear tones after that, giving him instead fragmentary glimpses of a puzzle that he must take apart himself in order to put it back together. Showing him his path as a map drawn by a blind man, but Hannibal is clever and special, and he can follow it and carry out his god's will. He prays nightly and offers his sacrifices, and though his god does not speak back, Hannibal can feel his pleasure thrumming along his veins.

Others do not appreciate his gift. They curse him when he comes to their towns, putting up all sorts of crude warding magics against him, and he smiles faintly at it. They are lesser beings, fragile minds who cannot yet comprehend the certainty and totality of death. Only once they understand and accept it can they see the poetry in it—and he is always willing to provide lessons to the unbelievers.

(They quickly learn the futility of trying to keep him out, and word travels. It isn't long before he's given proper respect, him and his god. His Will.)

Hannibal is far more than a mere supplicant. Above all, he _understands_ his god, understands that divinity is not an easy thing. Will is troubled by the visions he gives Hannibal, frightened of his own power, and while Hannibal is not a narcissistic man, he understands that his god needs him. Will is not capable of carrying out their will on his own, is hardly even capable of speaking to others, and so Hannibal performs these tasks for him.

Still, there are things he can't help craving. There are darker, filthier ways he wants to worship Will, ways he knows would frighten Will, even as he begged for more. He is presumptuous, over-bold, but he wants to know what Will's body would look like, wants to see it painted with thick red blood, wants to see his face covered in a delicate arterial spray. He wants to taste Will, wants to see Will lick blood from his fingers.

What he wants is revelation.

 

Revelation comes to him in the late evening of a Tuesday, sometime after dusk. His hands are stained and slippery with entrails and his eyes are closed, concentrating so hard on where to make the cuts that he nearly doesn't hear the footsteps. But he feels the presence well enough, so familiar, seeping into his bones. He turns around.

His god is small and frail-looking, like a frightened doe. Bare feet, hands twitching by his sides, like he's not quite sure what to do with them, avoiding eye-contact. He looks uncomfortable in his own skin, and Hannibal licks his lips with a rising sense of delight in his stomach.

"Can you not look at me like that," his god says, shifting back and forth on his feet. "It's unsettling."

And this is _unexpected_. Hannibal fights down a wolf-like grin. Will is—fragile, yes, as he'd already realized, but there's bite in him. Irresistible.

"Will," Hannibal says, and Will's mouth draws down.

"Hannibal," he says. "You're still looking at me. Like you're about to leap on me and devour me. Religious awe, I suppose."

"Religious awe," Hannibal agrees absently, studying his god. "I've so longed to meet you, Will."

Will makes a little noise in his throat, like a huff, rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. "Right," he says. He paces about the temple, peering at incense, lifts a statuette and puts it back down, draws his fingers through an errant little pool of blood. "This is my temple? Seems a bit, I don't know, unnecessary. I was fine with what we had before. But you like luxury, don't you?"

Hannibal shrugs. "People expect certain things."

Will snorts. "They always do." He sits abruptly, knees drawn up to his chest, tucked inside his arms. "Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing here? You know, all—" He gestures at himself. "Fleshy and the like."

"I was wondering," Hannibal says mildly.

"I wanted—" Will starts, and bites his lip, toes curling up against the polished stone floor. "I don't know what I wanted, I wanted feel something else, I wanted to get out of the _house_ —do you have any idea what it's like to be something like me? All those people we bring death to, I feel them, I can see each one of them and see exactly how they die, the most beautiful and artistic way to do it." He hunches his shoulders, shuddering. "I guess you could say I'm taking a vacation," he adds flatly.

"Or that you're running away?" Hannibal doesn't exactly mean to prod at him, but it's difficult to resist with this beautiful boy, this beautiful god.

"I'm not running away," Will says, sounding irritated. "I just think I've earned a few sick days, don't you?"

Hannibal chuckles. "I wasn't aware gods had sick leave."

Will glares at him. "Don't be like that. I thought you'd want—anyway. Just popped in for a chat, I guess, so if you'll excuse me I'm going to go find a brothel and drown myself in wine and women and all sorts of ungodly things."

He makes to stand and leave, but Hannibal catches his wrist. "Will," he says simply, and Will slumps back down. He curls into Hannibal almost unconsciously, and Hannibal drops an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close.

"I wanted to see you," he admits, and Hannibal exhales slowly, feeling thoroughly satisfied. "I'll go back in a few days. Is it alright if I stay here?"

There are rooms in the back that he keeps clean for passing pilgrims. But he knows that's not quite what either of them wants.

"My bedroom is down the hall," he says, and Will shivers and nods.

 

"I know what you're thinking," Will says, settling gingerly on the edge of Hannibal's bed.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You're wondering if I'm a virgin," Will says. "Wondering if you'll be the first to touch me like this." He sighs and scrubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. "You are, and you aren't. I'm—it's not that I have experienced things, being the way I am, I experience _everything_ —I've felt people having sex, felt them orgasm, and felt how they'd die. There's nothing that I haven't _experienced_ , but. No, I haven't ever, personally."

He's refusing to meet Hannibal's gaze again; embarrassed, nervous. Hannibal slides a finger under Will's chin, tips it up. "In that case," he murmurs, leaning in, until they're sharing breath. "I imagine you haven't done this."

Will's lips are soft underneath his, his mouth warm and inviting, and it takes all of Hannibal's self-restraint to keep this gentle, to avoid pushing Will down on his back and ravishing him. He indulges himself just a little, nips at Will's lower lip, not quite hard enough to draw blood.

" _Oh_ ," Will sighs, drawing back. His lips are parted slightly, tongue between his teeth. It's mouthwatering.

"Was that alright?" Hannibal asks, nosing at his jaw.

"Yeah," Will says, turning his head to the side, "that— _yes_ , please, just like that," he adds, as Hannibal takes advantage of this fresh new canvas to kiss Will's neck, to bite down and suck until it bruises. "Fuck, Hannibal, would you just—" He breaks off with a deep breath, like he's trying his best to keep his lungs steady. Such a curious thing, on a god.

"Just what?" Hannibal says, fingers already moving down to unbutton Will's collar.

"Just keep touching me," Will says, breathless, shoving his pants down his hips and kicking them off. He hooks a thumb in the waistband of his underpants, hesitates for a moment, but Hannibal folds his own hands over Will's and guides them down and off.

He's not ashamed of his own nudity, which Hannibal finds delightful. Seems more fascinated with his skin than anything, running a thumb lightly up and down his thigh before wriggling back against the headboard, legs fallen apart just slightly, waiting patiently. He couldn't be any more perfect if he'd been gift-wrapped.

Hannibal doesn't bother undressing before climbing on top of him, spreading his legs further and kneeling between them. He revels in the way Will's eyelashes flutter at the brush of his bare skin against the fabric of Hannibal's trousers, the little shiver that runs over him.

"May I kiss you again?" he asks, and Will makes an impatient little noise and reaches for him, pulls him in.

"You really don't need to ask permission," he says when they break apart.

Hannibal smiles faintly. "My dear Will," he says quietly. "I intend to worship you, as I always have. I have no intention of taking anything from you that you don't wish to give. You will give permission and deny it as you see fit, and you will tell me what you want from me, as you always have."

Will gives him a long look, eyes darting all over Hannibal's face, before nodding, slow and deliberate.

Hannibal allows his smile to widen. "Good boy."

He presses the tip of one lube-slick finger against Will's entrance, watches with satisfaction as Will sighs, toes curling. "May I?" he asks again, and though he suspects Will hardly knows what he's agreeing to, he nods.

Will lets out his breath in a slow whoosh as Hannibal slowly, so slowly, pushes his finger all the way inside him. He strokes it languidly in and out, and Will takes in a few, quick, shuddering breaths, but doesn't tell him to stop.

"Alright?" Hannibal asks, and he nods jerkily. "Tell me if you want more, Will, I can't help you if you don't ask."

"More," Will grits out, and then, almost as an afterthought, "please."

Hannibal rewards him with a few light, trailing kisses on his inner thighs, watches Will's eyes flutter shut as the second finger teases around his entrance before thrusting in. He's generous now, finds Will's prostate and presses the pad of one finger against it, smiling as Will takes in a shocked breath and pushes back against him.

He's willing to take his time with this, prepares Will with tender care, savors each little sigh. Watches the way his breathing changes, and hums in satisfaction. He talks to Will throughout, whispers soothing little words, strokes a hand down his thigh, offers little kisses, and by the time he deems Will ready, his boy is halfway to undone, curls sticking to his forehead with sweat, beautifully disheveled.

Still, though. Hannibal is gentleman, and he will do things properly.

Will shudders in the most delightful way as Hannibal slides his lips up to his ear, murmurs, "May I fuck you?" He doesn't reply for several long moments, and when he does, his voice is dry and husky, whispering, "Please."

It's a slippery, shivering push that leaves Will trembling and making little gasping noises, hands curling in the sheets. Hannibal lingers like that, feels Will's chest move underneath him with each breath, waits until he's making impatient sounds before drawing out and thrusting in again.

He keeps up a slow, steady pace, ignoring the way Will clutches at his back, greedy for more sensation. He's going to draw this out as long as possible, finds a strange pleasure in teasing Will and watching him writhe and beg.

"Harder," Will demands, and Hannibal acquiesces, memorizing the way Will's hips roll against his, the rough, nearly inhuman sounds he makes. He's nearly there, Hannibal can tell, and he traces a light hand up and down his cock, urging him closer, and then—

—and then, oh, Will is coming, warm and wet over Hannibal's fingers, breathless with pleasure. The sight is _radiant_. Hannibal fucks him through the aftershocks, clutching his hips tight, reveling in the way Will trembles and shudders.

"I want you to come inside me," Will says suddenly, so softly Hannibal nearly misses it. "Worship me," he commands, and Hannibal is helpless to disobey his god.

Will kisses his neck as he comes, wraps slender arms around him and holds him close. Sighs and curls himself around Hannibal as he comes down, tangling their limbs together.

"Dear Will," Hannibal says, dropping a kiss into Will's hair. "I may have to keep you here."

"I like it down here," Will tells him. "It's more fun. Far more...sensations." He trails a hand down Hannibal's side, closing his eyes.

Hannibal smiles indulgently. "Be careful. I wouldn't want to think I'm corrupting you." He can't deny, it's an intoxicating thought.

Will hums thoughtfully, stretches and sighs. "I don't think I'd mind much."

**Author's Note:**

> Will is like kind of vaguely based on ASOIAF's Many-Faced God? but the setting is very definitely not Braavos or anything.


End file.
